


Promise Knots

by Sheliak



Category: Chronicles of the Kencyrath - P. C. Hodgell
Genre: Embroidery, F/F, Sister-Kinship, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-08 06:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21471703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheliak/pseuds/Sheliak
Summary: Would-be sister-friends must spend a winter apart, to stitch their promise shawls and test their resolve.
Relationships: Aerulan of Knorth/Brenwyr of Brandan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2019





	Promise Knots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).

Aerulan and Brenwyr had been thinking of sister-kinship for some time now, and in late autumn they finally spoke of it together. 

But they could not make their vows just yet. 

This was too important to be entered into rashly, their elder kin said; and all custom agreed with that. They would have to wait. 

A winter apart, in their ancestral halls, after that shared resolution: that was what custom decreed, for all Brenwyr hadn't set foot in Falkirr since her mother's death. 

Time to stitch their promise shawls—but time, most of all, to test their wills and hearts.

* * *

Brenwyr stitched the record of her winter firmly, sometimes nearly pulling holes in the sturdy fabric she’d selected. (She wanted this promise-gift to _last._ Sometimes she felt that she herself might not, that perhaps she’d burn up before this fabric fell to pieces.) 

Here was a record of her long days, her sleepless nights, curses held back by will, shriveling against her tongue. Her brother’s kindness, her father’s fear, her own bitter loneliness, away from both the woman who had raised her and the one she wanted to call sister.

Sometimes she did, though she had no right yet to, not yet. 

_Sister, I want to see your face_— Even she could be no bolder than that, sewn on the inside shoulder, where only Aerulan’s hand would ever find the message. (Adiraina would never approve of such forwardness; surely neither would Brenwyr’s grandmother.) 

It was improper—Adiraina would tell her so—but she did not rip out the stitches. She wanted to be honest with Aerulan. 

If she was not, how could Aerulan answer her honestly in turn?

* * *

Aerulan’s stitches were neat and elegant, picked out in silk on wool so that her knots would catch the light, though the colors of thread and cloth were much the same. 

She told Brenwyr of her silent days in a Gothregor empty and echoing without the ladies of the other houses, of breaking ice each morning for her washwater, of the Tishooo’s howl at night. She stitched, _I would you were with me then, that I might share in your courage._

Brenwyr did not think herself brave—only reckless. Aerulan wanted to show her what she saw, and loved; wished she had the Shanir gift to do so. But she did not. Her stitches, and later her voice, must suffice.

* * *

Spring came slowly that year. The days lengthened, the snow began to melt—and yet winter held on. It was enough to drive Brenwyr to distraction. 

Again and again she shook out Aerulan’s shawl, looking desperately for any flaw she might have missed the last dozen times. She ripped out stitches, reworded sentences. No one dared comment; the men, even her brother, saw no reason to care, and the women didn’t dare interfere with her. 

She wanted to be away to Gothregor. But the matriarch decreed otherwise, and Brenwyr could not argue with her. (Adiraina would be disappointed in her if she did so openly, at least—even if Adiraina, longing for her own Knorth sister-friend, might have felt the same way in her place.) She could even see the logic; the ice that formed as the winter’s snow melted and froze again would make treacherous footing for their horses. And they had a bit more leeway than the ladies from keeps on the other side of the Silver, who would have to hurry to ford the river before the river rose with snowmelt. Besides that, they had the shortest journey to make, aside from the Ardeth to the south. Still, Brenwyr felt the passage of time like an itch. She wanted to be at Gothregor _now,_ to see Aerulan again. To hear her answer.

* * *

Far away at Gothregor, Aerulan hid in the Moon Garden, avoiding the fuss and bustle as the ladies of the other houses began to make their way back to the Women’s Halls.

She knew in her bones that Brenwyr wasn’t among them. Not yet. 

First came the Ardeth, and she wished dearly that Brenwyr had spent the winter with them as usual, though of course she didn’t mention that to Lady Kinzi. Then the Danior, racing their Randir neighbors as much as the Silver’s flood; at least that also meant the return of Aerulan’s cousin, honoring a contract with the Danior’s lord just now. Coman and Edirr came together, despite their matriarchs’ old rivalry—and still no Brandan. 

She would be patient. Her honor required it, after all. 

But it was hard. So she came here, where at least no one could see her fretting over Brenwyr's promise shawl. 

The shawl was finished, really; if Brenwyr had come with the Ardeth, Aerulan could have given it to her then without regrets. But there was a gap in her words, near the hem—not a big enough one to be a flaw, but room to say more. Aerulan sat on a clean patch of ground and spread the precious shawl across her long skirt, and stitched her longing into the cloth. 

* * *

As soon as she reached Gothregor Brenwyr sent one of the new randon cadets—Hawthorne, that was her name—to take her gift to Aerulan. Then, deprived of the task that had occupied her all winter, she retreated to her rooms—in the Ardeth compound, back with Adiraina and her kinswomen. It should have been a comfort to be back with her grandmother-kin; it was, in a way. But just now Adiraina’s knowing attention was unbearable. Brenwyr paced back and forth, faster and faster, all energy and no purpose. 

When another cadet—a breathless Knorth girl, no one Brenwyr recognized—brought her Aerulan’s gift in reply, Brenwyr’s joy was as bright and warm as her berserker rages were cold. She scarcely heard the girl’s words, waved her away almost before she was done speaking. All that mattered was the gift, and the knot stitches of Aerulan’s promise under her fingers. 

Tomorrow, on Spring’s Eve, they would make their vows.

* * *

They dug for crocuses at first light. It was easier than it might have been, snow melted and ground thawed; it was still bitterly cold, and Brenwyr found herself pausing oftener than she would like to rub her gloved fingers. 

Beside her, Aerulan was startlingly warm in the cold morning. A Shanir gift, perhaps; a kinder one than most. But then, that was Aerulan. 

They spoke the words—Brenwyr fierce and determined, Aerulan calm and sure. Both of them knew this oath by heart; Aerulan from her mother, Brenwyr from Adiraina. To love each other, no matter what their duties to their Houses required of them; to support each other; to aid one another’s daughters, and to require the same of their own. 

They would keep the bulbs, plant them in their home keeps, in the ladies’ gardens. Like the flowers that came back year after year, blooming under snow, their bond would endure pain and separation, and survive it. 

But for now, they were together. They would cherish this time, like the blossoms they had made their vows with, and it would give them strength in the years to come.


End file.
